Partly Angel
by C7oudBust
Summary: No matter how much we look at it, Killua always resembled an angel.


An angel; pale skin littered with countless scars from experiences, white inherited hair, and dull-coloured clothes, were caked in crimson from his victims. Eerie blue-coloured eyes stared blankly down the mangled corpses at his feet; skin streaked, organs poured out, limbs lost. Their frozen faces screamed anguish, and their eyes just as blank as their killer's.

* * *

The boy was born into the family of angels, with twisted moralities, killing lessons and brutal trainings as his childhood memories. Countless lives had been taken by his small yet dangerous hands before the sense of conscience existed in his mind.

It was nothing, it meant to be that way, for he had carried the burden of an angel on his shoulders.

Just like an angel, the pale boy was meant to feel nothing, to act robotically in every situation, to obey orders, hunt down a specific target and be the trigger for them to meet their fates, their ends. There's no guilt, no remorse, no pity. After all, his job was to eliminate mortals that others thought the world will be a better place to have them dead.

Ripping through targets' body, immobilizing them, watching them bleed out and stop breathing was a normal occurrence for him. He didn't throw up, never throw up at his piece of art he created every now and then. However, the sight of his art was not beautiful, it was never beautiful-it was never like what his family had convinced him to get him to kill. In the angel's little heart, he knew that even other serial killers kill for their amusement, to feel power or to see something beautiful-as in what a twisted mind would call it-while the angels kill because it was just what they do.

The boy became sick of killing people, but not because he knew that it was wrong; he was just sick of it because it had become an annoyance, an unavoidable boring part of his life, part of himself. He was only able to enjoy himself in a few missions when the targets or the targets' bodyguards were exceptionally good at fighting, but of course he won in the end. The corner of his mouth would tug up at the sight of his victories and of others' defeats, the temporarily sense of pride and satisfaction were all killing could ever offer him. For him, it wasn't wrong to belittle others' fragile lives, it was just an elimination game.

For years the angel had been confined in his little routine, waiting for something to change, to take him away from the place he called home. Until the day he stopped hoping for a change and ran away from home instead to _make_ the change.

That was when he met a boy his age, who'd taught him more than he could ever learn in his home. The angel started reaching out, towards everything he saw in that mortal, towards everything that was never meant for an angel such as he. It felt so warm, so overwhelming, and so new that he chose to leave the angel part of himself behind.

* * *

"Killua?" The all too familiar voice called out, which made the killer turn his head towards the person who'd called him.

Cold eyes observed the person; tan skin and yet the bruises on his body were visible, broken left arm, amber eyes and his expression spoke of concern for the killer rather than the victims. "Are you okay?" The person asked as he walked quickly towards the bloody boy, not fearing what would happen to himself, only cared for the wellbeing of his best friend.

As he gotten near enough to the killer, he boldly looked him in the eye, whereby most people would flinch and turn away from the sight of those soulless eyes. Immediately after doing so, the killer's eyes softened, and his irises turned back into the vibrant sky-blue colour it always had.

"Nah, I'm fine." He answered the question with boredom as the other boy sighed in relieve. The usual side of the boy had returned, the only thing he needed to do was to wash off the blood and hopefully the scent of death on his body.

They went off to the ink they rented after that, played and joked on the way as if nothing ever happened. For the tan boy, nothing else matters except for the ones he cared about. While the other boy had grown accustomed to the feelings of blood and flesh sticking onto his body.

* * *

That angel part of him would never go away, it would always be there, clinging closely onto his very existence. Every now and then, that part of him would overpower the part of him that seek for a cleaner and more normal lifestyle, and urge him to do what he was supposed to do: to manipulate mortals' fates and time of deaths.

It never really mattered, he was and always an angel.


End file.
